Classic Poem

One Farmer Giles, an honest clown
 From Peterborough, had occasion
To travel up to London town,
 About the death of a relation,
And wrote, his purpose to explain,
To cousin Jos in Martin's lane;
Who quickly sent him such an answer, as
 Might best determine him to dwell
 At the Blue Boar—the Cross—the Bell,
Or some one of the caravanseras
To which the various coaches went—
All which, he said, were excellent.

Quoth Giles, “I think it rather odd he
 Should write me thus, when I have read
 That London hosts will steal at dead
 Of night, to stab you in your bed,
Pocket your purse, and sell your body;
To 'scape from which unpleasant process,
I'll drive at once to cousin Jos's.”

Now cousin Jos. (whose name was Spriggs)
Was one of those punctilious prigs
 Who reverence the comme il faut ;
Who deem it criminal to vary
From modes prescribed, and thus “Monstrari
 Pretereuntium digito.”

Conceive him writhing down the Strand
With a live rustic in his hand,
 At once the gaper and gapee;
And pity his unhappy plight,
Condemn'd when, tête-à-tête, at night
To talk of hogs, nor deem it right
 To show his horrible ennui

Jos. was of learned notoriety,
 One of the male Blue-stocking clan,
Was register'd of each Society,
 Royal and Antiquarian;
Took in the Scientific Journal,
And wrote for Mr. Urban's Mag.
(For fear its liveliness should flag,)
A thermometrical diurnal,
With statements of old tombs and churches,
And such unreadable researches:

Wearied to death, one Thursday night,
With hearing our agrarian wight
 Prose about crops, and farms and dairies,
Spriggs cried—“A truce to corn and hay,—
Somerset House is no great way,
 We'll go and see the Antiquaries.”—

“And what are they?” inquired his guest:—
“Why, Sir,” said Jos., somewhat distress'd
 To answer his interrogator,—
“They are a sort—a sort—a kind
 Of commentators upon Nature.”—
“What, common 'tatoes!” Giles rejoin'd,
 His fist upon the table dashing:
“Take my advice—don't purchase one,
Not even at a groat a ton,—
 None but York kidneys does for mashing”